


24 Hours Ago

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dream Sex, First Time, Kissing, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 13:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15842697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: A story exploring what a devastating effect the power of the mind can have - when having so many sexy dreams about the same person night after night starts to blur the line between what you feel and what you THINK you feel. David can't stand it anymore; it's killing him. He thinks he's in love with Nick Clegg. Based on the excellent Noisettes song - '24 Hours'.





	24 Hours Ago

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2010 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the 'I wish I knew how to quit you' angst prompt at the uk_lolitics anon kink!meme.

The alarm went off at 6am but, as usual, the sleep-deprived politician found himself beginning to drift away from the finger which beckoned him to waken. He awoke more abruptly to a nudge. One minute his subservient, oh-so long-suffering wife had been sleeping there - the next, she most certainly _hadn't._ David was dreaming of _him_ again.  
  
"Where are my cigs, sweetheart?" Nick's voice was drowsy and thick; Night Nurse fed by spoon. He yawned, clacked his tongue several times to the roof of this palate, reaching out in vain. It was only upon rifling for them through much of David's important paperwork, later discarded as used tissue, did he realise he'd left them out on the side. He pressed his dirty and sex-stained hands (fresh from a rampant session) to the frosted surface, leaving dare he say even _more_ unexplainable smudges and marks for his duly domesticated partner to wipe clean. Because, to him, this was a by far and away more _amusing_ definition of a smear campaign.  
  
"Found 'em, baby," he grinned, with a scrunched expression which held the hollow tube thrust between his teeth.  
  
"Good," David's reply was muffled as he rolled over onto his back, lids still half-closed. "Just make sure you put all the stuff back, okay... We don't want any incriminating evidence."  
  
What stuff was that? The nature of his mind's unutterable wanderings should have been obvious from the following items:

Lying upon the surface was a packet of Mayfair (the smooth kind, he noted - much like the smoker himself) amongst a whole host of other sexual accessories, from condoms, flavoured lubricants, to the kind of effects that would make the founder of said cigarette brand's titillating namesake hide surreptitiously behind the pages of his own magazine. Or items which would have overshadowed the story of that female Liberal politician, who had decided to return to a life of directing porno movies after losing her fight to become an MP; a Daily Sport splash the pair of them had skimmed through during a genuine meeting earlier in the month. The media circus presumed Clegg would have been outraged at such a story, but instead he'd just laughed it off. Nick was like that - a _rebel_ , Cameron decided, as he heard the curt spark against the lighter's flint.  
  
Clegg tossed the pack aside, the gold foil torn and chewed at the edges, and as fucked as Nick must have surely looked. His hair was mussed to roughness from the sheer humidity in the air - and from the stickiness that they, themselves, had produced by making sweet, inter-political love throughout the night. His grey eyes, now reddened round the rims, were sore and shot to shit. If anyone were to have seen him outside the door of No.10 this morning, they would have known every sordid detail of their relationship as if they were written into the wrinkles on his face.

But then again, what did it matter? This carefree, fictitious depiction of Clegg honestly wasn't bothered, in Cameron's opinion.

It was as an atheist that he didn't care how God saw their unholy matrimony. In fact, Nicholas didn't care what _anybody_ thought of him full stop (so long as he represented the people who'd voted for his party.) Somebody of such _strong_ beliefs, in this _weakening_ age of politics, was like a breath of fresh air. Unlike the shroud of smoke in the room, currently spiralling out of control, swirling out of his flipped tab-end and gathering to form a circle around the Prime Minister's head - who coughed subconsciously, awake at last. As if his thoughts weren't clouded by _enough_ of a fog.

David didn't really like smoking. He couldn't work out why he'd even dreamt of _him_ doing it. That was, until, he saw the glowing ash dripping down onto Nick's chest like a splash of candy coloured cinders; of which he'd have killed to hoover every last morsel with his mouth. And yes, his tongue would have been burnt to buggery. But he'd have felt so damn satisfied in doing it to _him_.  
  
"Not on the bedsheets," Cameron commenced to protest, as Clegg's cig hovered dangerously above the duvet. "I'd never be able to explain the scorch-marks to my wife."  
  
But Nick simply smirked and stubbed a hole into the pillow, imagining her head still lain upon it - in what would have been quite a violent and vindictive act - were David _not_ dreaming. And he caused the older man to bark as if the sensation was against his own skin, Cameron choosing to ignore instead the great erotic charge his cigarette burn would have undoubtedly brought to the close of their night of already _heated_ passion.  
  
"Not my problem, David... And it shouldn't be yours' either. Not now that you've got me."  
  
He was right, you know, and David was slowly starting to agree. His heart belonged to Nick _fucking_ Clegg.  
  
On the radio, yet another newsreel of depressing fare; job losses and tax increases, of which the treasury could only do so much about. But, with Nick by his side, he felt strangely invincible, _empowered_ by this coalition. And perhaps Sam would never even _notice_ the fag-burn. Or perhaps she'd uncover it by _tomorrow_ and throw him out into Downing Street on his ear. Still, this feeling of _freedom_ , though temporary, must have been something like soaring through the sky. At last he knew why the Lib Dems were symbolised by the phoenix, rising from the wreckage - be it physical or emotional wreckage, he pondered, shuddering to think of the latter. And, as his marriage verged on tatters, Cameron shrank into the bed with sadness, listening intently to what the subsequent song would have to say about the mad world in which he lived:  
  
_I'm pulling my hair out_  
I can't get to sleep  
The bed feels so empty  
I can still smell you on me  
  
A moment in space, the look on your face when I said "hello"  
You stagger to mine, you're still on my mind; why do I feel so low?  
  
It could have been forever but we'll never know  
24 hours ago  
The night was all we had and then I had to go  
24 hours ago  
We were lovers  
24 hours ago  
  
The same clock he'd remembered from his dream, barely a minute ago, beeped to indicate that another quarter of an hour of snooze-time had passed since it last erupted with noise. This was going to make him late. His stomach lurched as he sat on the mattress, proceeding to stand before he'd even mustered the energy to sit.  
  
Blurred and bleary, he'd given Sam a quick peck on the cheek, but had scarcely gathered her misery at being ignored this morning; as with every morning lately. He'd been too busy looking for any male fingerprints marring the matching units, checking for a faint smell of tobacco within the air, or anything else that might have given the game away - at _this_ stage, when he still wasn't aware of _what_ was reality. What he didn't realise was - the only thing to give it away was himself - for David _talked_ in his sleep. And this was the seventh time this week he'd dreamed of a steamy encounter with Clegg, vocal every time about each and every detail.  
  
She choked back a sob the moment he had gone, lying on her back in such a manner that her tears - playing a cruel game of surface tension - lied atop her already smudged mascara and ran no further, like pennies balancing steadily on a dead man's, or indeed woman's, eyes. Tuppence is tuppence, as Scrooge would have said - but, lately, David couldn't pay his poor wife the _time_ of _day_. Cradling her bump, her echoes of "God... why, David?" must have echoed down the hall.  
  
But it fell upon deaf ears.  
  
Barefoot, Cameron bounded to the bathroom, knowing he had not long to spare before his imminent meeting with Nick Clegg. So confused he was, that he almost sprayed deodorant without first scrubbing his armpits, and nearly peed as blissfully in the sink. His entire life had been flipped onto its seedy underbelly, and he was now living upside down in topsy-turvy land, where there were no longer three parties in the parliamentary running; nor was there such an entity as a traditional government. Gasping, he realised that normality had ceased to be. Would this lend itself to his wider life as well? "So then - I suppose _anything_ goes..." he sighed, peering into the basin.  
  
He desperately needed to shake this feeling of fatigue. A brief splash of eau to his visage, fingers splayed against his pounding temples, and he could have sworn he was a new person again, ready to face the day. But the man in the mirror knew otherwise, as a ghostly figure of an imaginary Nick started to form in the shifting shapes of the condensation. Dribbling streaks under anyone else's mind, drew crude pictures of the infantile kind, of two naughty men together, doing naughty things. The arms of the half-naked stranger - unmistakably masculine in their appearance - snaked around his own reflection and began to squeeze the sheer life out of him, coiling over his chest before disappearing altogether. David shook his head wildly, to the extent that his eyes almost rattled around in his skull, like hapless Smarties in a tube. Blue ones, of course; the ones that drove you mad.  
  
He needed a shower. In truth, he needed a shrink, but a shower would do for the time being.  
  
His feet slapped against the beautifully cut limestone tiles - never an expense spared in this house - as he entered the large cubicle before him. He turned on the faucet and let the warm water wash over him, cleansing his body of his sins and taking each and every thought of Nick into the drain - where it _belonged_. Scouring furiously at his epidermis, wishing to exfoliate the outer layer and anything which bore a reminder of his antics with Deputy Prime Minister Clegg, his thoughts were intruded by the images again. Each extremity he went to lay a hand on held some forbidden fantasy.  
  
Squeezing the sodden sponge over his back, he recalled Nick digging his nails hard into his flesh as he then ground the sponge against his stiffening lap. David expected to see marks along his thighs where his partner's stubble had grazed him, mouth nipping expectantly at his cock. And then there he had to go mention the 'c' word; as he drew back his foreskin to clean his shaft with a soapy, lathered grasp, pleasant sensations coupled with even fonder memories saw his penis rapidly became engorged with blood, the spray of the shower easily coaxing it to an upright position. He would need to masturbate this off before anyone saw.

"I wish I knew how to quit you," he spoke aloud, spitting water as soon as his lips had parted, and laughing through his blocked and running nose, a sting in his nostrils as he snorted. How corny of a line could you find? But honestly; he just couldn't stop _thinking_ of Nick, and his personal space had been invaded by the way of dreams he just _didn't_ know how to handle. It was ruining everything, he deemed, his seed spilling down the plughole with the consistency of watered-down milk.  
  
He exited the room with as much bafflement as when he went in; his tail between his legs, as literal as it was figuratively speaking. Soon, he would be sweating madly from the unusually high May temperatures, and all of this will have been a _pointless_ exercise. But nonetheless, he signalled a full-fingered gesture to his driver from out of the window, giving him five whole minutes of peace in which to get dressed and sort out his mind. He had better make them count.  
  
_Where did the summer go?_  
Everybody's fallen in love  
Hey, lover, I'm in limbo  
I can still feel your touch  
  
So look in my eyes and tell me you don't want to run away  
I know I was bold, but life is too short to catch a heart so cold  
  
It could have been forever but we'll never know  
24 hours ago  
The night was all we had and then I had to go  
24 hours ago  
We were lovers  
Just 24 hours ago  
  
The mellow sunshine filtered in through the tinted charcoal glass of his car, his chauffeur whistling a happy tune which befitted, to a tee, this bright and bouncy day. The furnished interior was awash with glow, and he pulled on the cord of his little blind to keep the glare from startling his over-sensitive corneas. Head supported by the cool and padded rest, he stretched both hands out along the luxurious leather, basking in the air conditioned environment - such a blessing in this weather. And also began to hum. The melody was unclear, but he knew what he wanted to hear; the song he kept _hearing_ , be it on shuffle or repeat; the song in his head from this morning which reminded him of  _Nick_. His digits tapped a rapid drumming to the acoustic guitar verses he'd become so well acquainted with.  
  
The scenery hazily switched around him - to and fro - cityscape merging to crisp trees of green, and the rumblings of suspension beneath him swiftly replaced with the cushion of a soft recliner. David would've struggled to pick up the point where he'd gone from bring strapped and seatbelted in his vehicle to being _dropped_ , unsuspectingly, on an office chair. He was too busy thinking of Nick, and his petty passing fancies - and, you know - how they were _taking over his life_.  
  
After the week he'd had, it was bound to slip out sooner or later. One of the major reasons he feared this so, was that the Clegg he met for dinner with, and talked over policy with, was actually stupendously charming and nice - and may take somewhat of an offence to the fact that the Clegg he lusted over at night was a complete and utter loathsome bastard. He blew so _hot_ , but then so _cold_. Cameron didn't know whether he was coming or going. And he was so _used_ to seeing Nick, all hours of the day and in every long-forgotten corner of his brain, that it didn't seem _remotely_ unusual to be talking to him now. Though he couldn't be sure exactly which one he was talking _to_.  
  
"Sir," brought him crashing back to earth, combined with the snapping of a thumb and forefinger. "Proportional representation, David. Where are the proposals you promised me?"  
  
"I...er... I forgot to bring them," he said, deflated. He hadn't even twigged on to that in the car, for Christ's sake.  
  
"What?" Nick's tone was bordering on fury and, for a second, it seemed David may have met with the evil of two twins. "That was the whole point! How could you possibly have left them behind? I know you tories, and your calculating tactics... But I never thought you'd stoop so low." This must have been deliberate, thought Clegg; there was a no more plausible explanation.  
  
"Don't judge me, okay! I have a lot to contend with, here... My mind - it feels like I'm going _crazy_ \- I just don't know what I'm doing anymore. _Fuck_..."  
  
Cameron's outburst now had Nick rather more concerned over any _other_ emotion, however irritating David's lack of coherency and concentration persisted to be. He'd been Prime Minister for a surprisingly short amount of time to be suffering a breakdown, and the younger man couldn't help but think that it was _more_ than just the _pressure_ getting on top of him.

"Is everything alright? I mean, do you need a doctor or anything?" As Nick grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, David felt mute and was struck dumb all of a sudden. But then a stream of words tumbled from him as if he was vomiting blood - however, the so-called 'illness' at work was nothing more than a worrying infatuation with the man who stood before him.  
  
"I've been having these _dreams_... These  _crazy_ dreams... Dreams about you and me; dreams where--"  
  
Was that _all?_ Clegg had assumed it to be something _grave._ Quite a cringeworthy admission by anyone's standards, Nick at least would have given him bonus points for honesty - most major political figures would have shied away from being associated such blatant _hippyism_. Baroness Thatcher was, as her name suggested, an iron lady, and famously slept for only _four_ hours a night. But whether she did it to keep her nightmares of Edward Heath at bay, he seriously doubted. He had random visions now of astrological charts and the planets shuffling about in their honour, aligning to make the decisions of their coalition agreement a doddle. He was Capricorn; Dave was a Libran, so of _course_ it would work itself out. This was all too kitsch and clichéd for him to take.  
  
"Hah! I didn't think you would believe in that sort of rubbish... Next you'll be telling me that the Archangel Gabriel visited you when Sam fell pregnant."  
  
"No, it was--" he challenged, abruptly interrupted again.  
  
"Don't tell me, David... This is ridiculous. And there's me thinking you wanted to take this election seriously... _Jesus_ , I need a fag to calm my nerves," he cried, exasperated. He dashed to the table and scrambled for his nicotine fix. _Bensons_ , Cameron thought with some deliberation - he'd even got that so _wrong_ in his dreams. No sooner had Nick pursed his lips around the peach-coloured filter, did the other man step in to stop him.  
  
"Please don't, Nick... _I don't like the taste_."  
  
"Sorry, sweetheart," Clegg muttered an apology absentmindedly, catching the slip-up he'd made _himself_ \- probably a mental flashback to when Miriam would have asked him the same, to stop smoking when he was stressed - before fully _digesting_ the meaning behind the sentence he had just heard from Cameron. He didn't take the cigarette out, as requested. Stunned, he just paused, and the cig gently somersaulted from its snug fit within in his bottom lip, and fell on the floor with an outright thud. You could have heard a pin drop. Did he just say...?  
  
Acting purely on impulse, David seized the opportunity of his mistake, knowing full well there would _never_ be a better chance. The timing was right and, at last, appropriate. He stood on his tiptoes to chastely kiss the DPM, hands cupping either side of his face as if he was blowing air into a balloon. Scandalous behaviour, he couldn't help but think, but now Nick was kissing him _back_ and this was rapidly getting out of control. Even if it did _pale_ in comparison to the graphic detail of his dreams.  
  
A hand clutched into his slickened hair and a tongue roamed his mouth, jutting too far into his throat and licking at his tonsils - metaphorically, but not by much - for Clegg was overly eager, and questionably less skilled than he had assumed. He wasn't a _dream_ man; he was _human_ , and very distinctly so, as the corners of his mouth turned upwards to a grimace as their eyes locked. And he wasn't a sex god; he was more like a little boy who couldn't stop giggling at the thought of doing something naughty. But when Nick smiled with such warmth, David was putty in his palms. His Deputy was kind, caring, and _definitely_ not trying to get him to leave his wife. But even _he_ wasn't perfect. Married himself, he still couldn't help himself from returning the affection brought about by David's dreams.

 _How do we conceal that life is not what it should be?_  
Life is not what it seems  
If you're fraying at the seams  
Don't let your heart fray  
  
The night was all we had and then I had to go  
24 hours ago  
We were lovers  
Just 24 hours ago  
  
"It was... a different kind of dream," Cameron eventually confessed, blushing at the expense of the rather romantic turn of events.  
  
He turned to the window and looked out into the glorious countryside, the world turning no quicker or slower than it had done prior. But, this time, when he found his body being enveloped in arms, the embrace was as real and as sturdy as concrete; hands tucked underneath his own folded stance, brushing between his cotton shirt material and bare skin which burned with embarrassment.  
  
There was a huff from the taller, more slender fellow. If only David had told him this before, instead of beating around the bush. "I gathered that," Nick suspired, breathless. "But I wished you'd warned me - I'll need a snort of _cocaine_ to recover from the shock of that - never _mind_ a few smokes."  
  
His friend glared at him, steely. And oddly, for the first moment of this meeting today - regardless of the awkward clashing of mouths - prayed for there to be no clandestine recording equipment taped beneath the desk on behalf of the newspapers. "You shouldn't say things like that."  
  
"And you shouldn't have kissed me... But more importantly, I shouldn't have taken advantage of you in the first place. You're in a fragile state and I was wrong to do that to you..." said ever-caring, Nick Clegg, who didn't care what _anybody_ thought of him (full stop).  
  
"What are we going to do about this?" Cameron whined, needy for comfort and assurance.

"I don't know," the reply came. "But we'll figure something out: get your head straight, have a holiday in the Maldives. Take a day out from leading the country, Dave... and then maybe we'll see."

...

But a day later, he'd just be back to square _one_.

  
  
_We were lovers_  
24 hours ago.


End file.
